


The Five Year Plan

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Escorts, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 11:13:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9488582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "It is, after all, the smart thing to do."A sex worker AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with themes of escort/sex work and many ethically dubious actions that come with the territory.

The agency sets him up with a discreet checking account, health insurance that covers primary and dental care and then a couple dozen other things besides, a real estate agent, a corporate charitable spending account that matches up to $300 in annual donations, self-defense training, discounted rates for museum or theater tickets, an encrypted laptop, on-call legal assistance, intensive English tutoring, four pairs of exquisitely tailored suits, professional head shots, membership to the local private gym, and bi-monthly webinars on financial planning - and all Yuuri has to do is sign on the dotted line a million times while promising to always answer the work phone they give him when it rings.

 

“Don’t call us, we’ll call you” was the exact phrasing that had been used, so to pass the time he packs his belongings into 4 large boxes while trying not to think about middle-aged men in power ties reading the 500-word bio he’d sent in for the agency’s catalog.

 

“Freelancing?” Sugimoto-san wrinkled her nose when Yuuri gave her his 2 weeks notice. “That sounds hard.”

 

“Yeah, well.” He peeled off the packing tape from a new shipment of prepackaged bento and shrugged. “I just wanted to try something new.” 

 

“This isn’t about me switching your weekend shift with Minato’s, is it?” Sugimoto-san said. “Because we can always discuss-“

 

“Oh, no no no. It has nothing to do with - um. That wasn’t the reason at all,” Yuuri said. 

 

Sugimoto-san had laughed nervously and patted him on the back. “Okay then,” she’d said, and then, later, after they’d chased away a group of middle schoolers loitering by the manga section, “You know, I’m going to miss having you around. I hate training new employees.”

 

“What, nothing about how I’ve been so diligent and hardworking?” Yuuri deadpanned. A couple fingers on his left hand were still bruised from being twisted back during his last agency-mandated self-defense session. The instructor, a bloodlessly efficient Israeli woman in her thirties, had spent the whole 3 hours drilling him in how to get out from under someone who had you pinned by the legs, arms, and neck.

 

Sugimoto-san patted him on the cheek. “You’re okay, Katsuki.”

 

She’d offered to help him move into his new place, but the agency had a whole handbook on revealing personal details while on call - which, apparently, was always - so he let her give him a housewarming gift basket instead: a soft blue blanket, several tins of cookies, Tupperware. 

 

“Thank you,” he’d said. “This is - really thoughtful.”

 

“It’s just some stuff. Minato picked the blanket. I think he feels kind of bad about the whole thing, you know, with the shift switching.”

 

Yuuri tried to dig up a smile. “It wasn’t that, I promise.”

 

“Take care of yourself now,” Sugimoto-san said, suddenly stern. “I know you’re technically a legal adult, but just. Be careful. Make good decisions.”

 

“I will,” Yuuri assured her. “I am.” It was, after all, the smart thing to do.

 

*

 

Kyoto is beautiful this time of year, spring unfurling its wings slowly over the ancient city and stirring the Kamogawa River’s dark waters. It’s a world away from Hasetsu, wide streets teeming with salarymen and tourists and schoolgirls in crisp green-and-white uniforms, so much so that Yuuri forgets himself a little on the cab ride over to the Lake Biwa Marriott and stares and stares, drinking it all in. 

 

His first client wants him to wear lipstick and black silk female undergarments, and then he wants to rest his head in Yuuri’s lap while having his hair stroked. Alvaro has a power tie on. He’s also apparently the type that ages gracefully, hair going softly silver at the temples, and he asks for it in such stiltedly embarrassed Japanese that Yuuri finds himself sitting down on an overstuffed love seat and patting his thighs.

 

“I speak English at a conversational work capacity,” he adds, teasing, sounding younger than he has in a long time, because he’d been given a crash course in this too, in between the sessions with the Israeli self-defense lady. The bra and panties are cool and slippery, obviously expensive; he’s put in contacts and slicked back his hair a little and, well, he supposes he looks good. It’s easy enough to go along with a part when it’s laid out in such starkly simple terms on a note attached to the invoice: _be innocent, inquisitive, and sympathetic. do not attempt flattery._ Yuuri wonders why whoever referred him to the agency had thought he’d be particularly good at this before he reels himself back into the present and hears Alvaro say, “Oh thank God”, and sink down like all his strings have been cut, pillowing his head in Yuuri’s lap. 

 

It goes pretty well after that.

 

They move on from hair-petting, to letting Alvaro cuss out his executive board for making him work hundred-hour weeks where he seems to do a lot of smiling and damage control, to a massage, to fucking. Alvaro spreads him open against the enormous window across from the bed, pushes the panties out of the way, and screws in and in until Yuuri is sliding sweat-damp handprints all over the pristine glass and begging for it, mostly honest. Kyoto City at night looks dizzyingly pretty from the eighteenth floor of the Lake Biwa Marriot, and it looks even better, Yuuri realizes, when his thighs are sopping slick and callused fingers are digging into his hips and he’s getting savagely fucked into the window while a guy licks and hisses a stream of creatively degrading stuff into his ear while refusing to let him come. It’s a little like riding waves on the beach; Yuuri loses himself in it, surging forward to let his body fill all the desperately yearning corners of the fantasy, sucking him under and pushing him to shore, again and again.

 

“Please,” he moans, and also “Do it, I want you to” and “Yes, I’m your bitch, do it, breed me up.”

 

Afterwards, Alvaro takes first shower and then orders him room service: buttery rolls, swordfish tacos, cheesecake.

 

“You’re not hungry?” Yuuri asks, hesitating over the first covered dish. 

 

Alvaro smiles, wincing. “No, I-“ He lets Yuuri take the tie out of his hands and cinch it tight, neat, around the collar of his Tom Ford shirt. “I’ve a meeting with some people in half an hour.”

 

“Oh. Good luck.”

 

“I’ll drive you back to the train station, after,” Alvaro says, shrugging on his suit jacket. He looks calm and frictionless again, all the raw, ripped-open edges from minutes ago tucked away under several thousand dollars of menswear. “And thanks for the, you know. You were sweet.”

 

“Oh,” Yuuri says again. “I mean, it wasn’t that. You were very. Um. It was good.”

 

Alvaro looks a little disbelieving, a little relieved. “I wasn’t very nice to you. At the end.”

 

“You’re nice all the time,” Yuuri says. “You don’t have to be with me.”

 

*

 

Yuuri hasn’t even been in a hotel since he was 7 years old. The onsen doesn’t count - what memories of the place his mind still clings to are crinkled and faded, dissolve under too-close scrutiny.Still, he’s pretty sure that there were deep, quiet hot springs, traditional tatami mats in the guest rooms. The city council converted it into public park after the accident, and Yuuri was sent to the alternative care institution on the other side of the city, and that had been that.

 

He’s thought about moving closer to the area since graduation, maybe reconnecting with Nishigori or Yuko-chan from Ice Castle Hasetsu. It’s a dumb idea. Life isn’t an anime; you don’t really - care, about people you only knew for a couple years when you were in elementary school.There’s no reason for them to remember little Katsuki Yuuri, who couldn’t even skate backwards when his family died in a tragic train accident that killed a far more prominent local politician and his young mistress.

 

“God, you’re such a touch slut,” Yuuri’s fifth client of the month says. They’ve been at it for hours, Yuuri laid back on an examination table in his private practice, stripped naked and spread open and shivering, partly from arousal but mostly from the air conditioning. 

 

“Yeah,” Yuuri breathes. This guy, Ito, has a thing for feet. He wants to trace every square centimeter of Yuuri’s soles, and then do it again, and then taste the cradles of skin between his toes, hands lazily stroking his ankles. It’s pretty relaxing. And it’s nice to be with someone who speaks Japanese for once; eighty percent of native-born clients want foreigners. There’s a reason why Yuuri specializes in expatriates and traveling businessmen, the occasional professor headed to a conference. His English has never been better.

 

“Look at you,” Ito continues, voice low, rough. He slides a hand up Yuuri’s left leg, thumb brushing reverently over the soft skin his kneecap, and mouths a wet trail up to his half-hard cock. “How are you not getting fucked all the time? Your whole body is just begging to be touched.” 

 

“Could do with some more touching,” Yuuri mumbles. He feels like an overripe peach, soft and dissolving at the edges, unbearably sensitive. The look in Ito’s eyes is flustering - Yuuri’s been with enough clients by now that he’s used to the reverent stare when they’re coming deep in his mouth or his ass, but there’s a humbling gratefulness to the way Ito gazes at him, like he’s trying to memorize everything so he can remember it exactly later. The feeling is entirely foreign.

 

“You’re so good,” Ito murmurs after he finally, finally sucks Yuuri off and then comes from a lazy foot job. He can’t seem to stop touching him. Feather-light fingers brush over the arches of Yuuri’s feet, drag shivery traces of sensation up over his legs and stomach, cup his face and slide up into his hair. “You always make it so good.”

 

“It’s nothing, really,” Yuuri says.

 

At the alternative care institution, the staff was perpetually occupied with the toddlers. They needed diapers changed, constantly, and rocking, and feeding, and were always getting sick. They were cute, though, baby fat appealing rather than a built-in invisibility cloak like it was for Yuuri. Puberty had added 10 pounds to his gut and nearsightedness as as parting gift. The few foster and adoptive parents that passed through thought he was a volunteer.

 

 

*

 

The agency works by referral only, both with clients and contractors, and the amounts of money and paperwork involved are so stupidly big that Yuuri doesn’t ever question his assignments. They’re never anything he can’t handle. And the money is - excellent, even after deducting for the agency’s cut and the bimonthly STD panels and daily PrEP pills and psych evaluations, that it’s easy to gloss over that one client who’d wanted him to wear stilettos and step on bugs for _two days,_ and focus on the good. The downtime he has to join a local library and try out recipes he finds online; getting to stay in some of the most beautiful hotel rooms money can buy; the honest pleasure that sweeps open his clients’ faces, sometimes, when Yuuri manages to do something surprising. He has a new apartment that looks out over the cliffs and on nights when he cracks the windows open, a deep forest smell fills up all the rooms, and Yuuri feels greedy for it, all of it, suddenly _wants_ with a vast, directionless passion he hadn’t even known he was capable of anymore.

 

His first meeting with Mikhail Petrov is at a private room in a private club in the Ginza district’s glittering heart. The catering is silver service: cucumber salad, smoked salmon, tiny sandwiches next to nut and fruit boxes, a small dish of wagashi.

 

“You look wonderful,” Petrov murmurs when Yuuri sits down on the chair across from him. “I’m glad to see you wearing that suit.”

 

The suit is slate gray poplin and steeped in the smell of camphor and cigarette smoke. It’s too big, and the elbows are faded, and there are Japanese receipts from thirty years ago crumpled in the pant pockets. It had been couriered over in the same box as the invoice and contract. “As far as accessories go, I like this one,” Yuuri replies.

 

Petrov smiles. “I haven’t been to Japan in - oh, decades.Where are you from?”

 

“Kyushu, sir.” Petrov knows this already.

 

“I had a sweetheart from Kyushu. You’re very- Well, the suit was too big on him too.”

 

The smile he gives Yuuri this time feels like a hand around the wrist, sharp and pleased, unnervingly hungry. 

 

“I’d like to hear about him,” Yuuri says, fumbling down a glass of water. “What, um. What did you call him?”

 

“Yuji,” Petrov says. “I called him Yuji.”

 

The rest of the meeting goes pretty much like that. Petrov seems disinclined to do much aside from talk and leave a respectable dent in the platter of water crackers and cured meats. He rambles about the industrialization that’s swept through Japan and reminisces about sleepy, half-forgotten towns that Yuuri hasn’t visited in years, elides casually around the “we” instead of “I” in all the little charming anecdotes until by the end, Yuuri knows the shape of what the man wants, even if he doesn’t understand why Petrov wants it done this way. 

 

Becoming a successful contractor is 99 parts being beyond shame to every 1 part sexual prowess. And so it’s absurd that after role playing farm animals and mothers and a historically inaccurate imperial eunuch from the Meiji era, after letting people lick his shoes for hours and fuck him against floor-to-ceiling glass windows, it’s this that makes Yuuri’s blood roar in his ears and his stomach flip with anxiety: thinking about Petrov thinking about him, how well he’ll be able to fill the lacuna of a lost lover who always wore the wrong size suit and grew up a 2 hour drive from Hasetsu. 

 

“This was good,” Petrov says when their hour is up. “Thank you for coming. I appreciate it.”

 

Yuuri tries not to seem too relieved. From a great distance, he hears himself say,“I look forward to continuing our - lessons, during your stay here, Mr. Petrov.”

 

“Please, call me Misha.”

 

Yuuri doesn’t, against best practices, but after he wraps up another case in Kansai a week later, there’s a new message waiting for him in his inbox with an invoice and an e-ticket for a flight in 4 days from Fukuoka to St. Petersburg. _Congratulations,_ the regional agency representative says when he calls her, _on your first exclusive contract._

 

*

 

When he was young, Yuuri spent a great deal of time thinking about how true love might find him. Whether it would be immediately blinding like in the shojo manga everyone at the facility pretended to be too old for, or if it would sneak up on him, lace their fingers under the covers after the lights shut off.

 

By the time he entered high school he had a couple friends - Yamato, who smoked behind the tennis courts during lunch and gave him all the fried parts of her bento, and Kikuchi, who through a process of natural social attrition had been paired with Yuuri for gym. Kikuchi was tall, careless, too perceptive. He seemed amused by how awkward Yuuri got whenever they accidentally touched. 

 

“What’s the matter, Yu-uri-kun?” Kikuchi asked once, when they’d brushed elbows in the locker room. “Embarrassed?” His junior year, Kikuchi shot up 15 centimeters and his voice dropped an octave, not that Yuuri was trying to notice. 

 

“No,” Yuuri said, turning away to hide his stomach.

 

“I think you are. Don’t be, we’re friends, right?”

 

“Yes?” 

 

Someone further down the bench laughed. “That’s pretty harsh, Katsuki.”

 

“So not cute,” Kikuchi agreed, but he was grinning.

 

A month later, when they were studying for exams in Kikuchi’s room, he’d put his textbook down and kissed Yuuri curiously, guiding him onto the carpet before slowly fucking his mouth, touching his cheek, stroking a hand down his stomach. They did that two or three or four times a week before summer vacation came and Kikuchi stopped responding to Yuuri’s messages.

 

“Look,” Kikuchi sighed when they came back and got paired together for gym again. “Sorry. We can still do this, but, just.”

 

“Yes?” Yuuri said quietly.

 

“This can’t be like with a girl, you know that right?” Kikuchi’s gaze slid away and Yuuri prepared to hear something about how they’d have to be discreet, which was obvious. “We can keep fooling around, but I’m probably going to do - this, with other people too.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I mean, I just want to try it out more. If you’re not okay with that, then we probably shouldn’t.”

 

Yuuri hadn’t even noticed that Kikuchi was looking somewhere else; he’d thought - he doesn’t even know. “It’s fine with me,” he muttered. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

Except the couple other people Kikuchi snuck away with were thinner and had better skin, and seemed like they never worried about Kikuchi seeing them from a bad angle. Kikuchi still seemed content to make Yuuri come and spill over the soft of his stomach, afterwards, but Yuuri worried that he didn’t like it as much. Yuuri didn’t know how to do that many things, and Kikuchi sometimes sighed when it took a while for him to come, like he was thinking about chores or the weather tomorrow or maybe being late to meet with someone else. Yuuri stopped asking, just to see what would happen, and then nothing ever did.


End file.
